


The Empty Corpse

by Pushtheskyaway



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 13:54:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1268839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pushtheskyaway/pseuds/Pushtheskyaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is called by Lestrade to help the police with a peculiar case - a body found entirely drained of blood. However, the police aren't the only ones interested - the Doctor and Martha want to know what happened too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Empty Corpse

Sherlock Homes was on a case.  
It was a fascinating case, almost too good to be true. Lestrade had called him as he lounged, bored, in his leather armchair at half past eleven in the evening, and he’d been out of the house before Lestrade had finished his sentence explaining what had happened, John hurrying along, cursing, in his wake.  
The body had been left in an abandoned house – nothing much amiss with that. What was curious was the state of the corpse. It was completely drained of blood – not a drop left inside, as far as they could tell. They had yet to perform an autopsy. The only visible would were two small punctures in the neck. Lestrade hadn’t wanted to say it, but Sherlock knew what they were all thinking – what kind of psychopath pretends to be a vampire?  
Most of the Police at the building were leaving. All that was left was the team waiting to remove the body, Lestrade, Anderson and Donovan. Normally, this would have irritated Sherlock no end, but he felt like nothing could touch him. He was on a case, and what a case it was.  
“Where’s the body?” He asked Lestrade abruptly. Lestrade motioned down the corridor, and Sherlock strode down it, hearing John and Lestrade greet each other with faint amusement. How could it be possible for them to care about the other’s weekend when the Game was On?  
The man lay spread-eagled on the floor of the once living room, his face slack and vacant. He could have been resting. Not killed instantly then – no, it was slow, or his eyes would have been open, but it wasn’t overly painful, because he looked peaceful, as if he’d just fallen asleep. His face was deadly white – it was just as Lestrade had said, he had been bled dry. He was a middle class man, early forties, fit. An accountant in the city, judging by his suit (expensive) and the creases in the back of his trousers – he worked sitting down, which would be maintained by the fact that his shoes weren’t new (they’d been polished several times, and the laces had been replaced) but had a very little worn sole that was the original. Wedding ring, clean, well looked after – happily married. Smudge of Nutella on his shirt from where his child had hugged him goodbye in the morning as he left for work. Sherlock stood back and nodded to Lestrade –I’ve got all I need from the body. You can take it away now.  
“Will you be going now?” Lestrade asked.  
“No,” said Sherlock, and heard John sigh, almost inaudibly, behind him. “I need to look over the whole house. Now, while it’s fresh.”  
Lestrade sighed, just like John had moments ago. “Well, I can’t leave you here alone. I’ll be around.”  
Sherlock nodded his consent, and bent to examine the skirting. 

Suddenly – and bizarrely – a series of familiar notes echoed throughout the house – Westminster Chimes. Sherlock stood up straight and frowned at John (who clearly had no explanation to offer) then at Lestrade. John clearly decided to bite the bullet and ask the obvious question.  
“Was that the doorbell?”  
They looked at each other for a second longer. Then Sherlock nodded, led the way down the hall and opened the door.  
“Hi!” the man was tall and skinny, wearing a blue suit and a long brown coat. His hair was almost majestically ruffled, and he couldn’t have been more than thirty-five. A dark-skinned young woman wearing a red leather jacket peered round him and smiled slightly apologetically. The man didn’t seem to notice their total bafflement.  
“I’m the Doctor, this is Martha. Lovely to meet you!”  
Sherlock stared at him without saying a word. The woman was easy to understand (early twenties, close to her family, medical student, Londoner) but he couldn’t get anything on the man. He was perfectly disguised. Was he married, or in a relationship? Certainly not with the girl, but maybe with someone else? Sherlock couldn’t tell. Job? Nothing. Interests, problems, habits – he couldn’t come up with anything. Even his face – he looked young, but he didn’t feel young. He had the manner of an old man. But that made no sense. Nothing made sense.  
John looked at Sherlock uncomfortably, who was staring at the man – the Doctor – like a display of modern art that he found at the same time fascinating and revolting. He cleared his throat to see if he would stop, and seeing that there was no chance of that, stepped forward and shook the Doctor’s outstretched hand, then Martha’s.  
“Dr. John Watson,” he said, “this is Sherlock Holmes, and Inspector Lestrade – he’s from Scotland Yard. It’s, um, nice to meet you too. If you don’t mind me asking – what are you doing here?”  
“We’re…” the Doctor glanced at Martha. “We’re inspecting!” He pulled a black ID wallet out of his inner pocket and flashed it at them. “Inspecting the Police. In a nice way. We’re nice inspectors. Here to help really.” John squinted at the paper. It did indeed look official.  
“That paper is blank,” Sherlock spoke for the first time since the doorbell had rung. The Doctor looked at him, evidently surprised.  
“Well – it’s, it’s…”  
“Not blank!” Lestrade stared at the paper. “Sherlock - what the hell is going on?”  
The Doctor sighed. “Alright, I won’t bother with tricks. I came about the murders.”  
“Murders?” Lestrade’s frown deepened. “There’s only been the one!”  
Sherlock, to John’s surprise was smiling. “You know there are more too?”  
“Yes,” the Doctor looked at him seriously. “Five in this area, and-“  
“Eight over the country in the past two months. Before that, in America. I haven’t followed the entire trail back yet.”  
The Doctor’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Oh,” he said delightedly, “You’re clever!”  
“So,” said Sherlock carefully, “are you.”  
The stared each other for a moment. Martha looked between the two of them, shook her head and then cleared her throat. They both jumped slightly.  
“Doctor,” she said, “the murders?”  
“Oh, yes! Sorry,” the Doctor looked round at Martha. “Where were we – yes, connected…”  
“You knew!” Lestrade looked accusingly at Sherlock. “Just when were you planning to tell me?”  
“I only worked it out a couple of minutes ago,” said Sherlock. “But whoever’s doing this – this isn’t their first time. It’s only the first time they’ve been sloppy. Three months ago, a car accident in Manchester. After dark, but no rain, experienced driver, no evidence of inebriation. Two months and two weeks ago, stabbing, also in Manchester, on fatality, a twenty-year-old man. Clean record, place at the University. Not a heavy drinker. Two months ago, another car accident. Same circumstances as the first. One month – a factory accident. The least careful until this one – the woman had been doing the same job for ten years, she was sensible. She would have had to be nearly suicidal to have that accident, and she had no reason to be. None of them made sense, nothing added up to an accident.”  
“Have you worked it out yet?” asked the Doctor. “What they’ve all had in common? All the murders.”  
“Yes,” said Sherlock, “the murderer wanted their blood. The other bodies – he or she left some in, so it appeared that the blood loss was natural due to the wound, and staged them in heavy rain or near a river to account for all of the missing blood. The factory worker was the first time he didn’t.”  
There was a moment’s silence. Then Lestrade spoke up, looking at the Doctor with uncharacteristic mistrust.  
“If you know so much about it,” he said, “then can you tell us who did it?”  
“Not who,” said Martha, her face serious. “What.”  
It would have been funny, John thought, in any other situation. Laughably silly. But there in the cold hallway, the door still open, letting the night in – there, he had no trouble believing her.  
Sherlock, in his usual style, broke the tension with a disdainful flick of his tongue.  
“If you say vampire,” he said, “I will ignore you. Permanently.”  
“Not vampire,” said the Doctor. “Plasmavore.”  
“Please,” Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
“He’s telling the truth!” said Martha. “Remember when that hospital disappeared from the centre of London and then reappeared again? We were in there. So was a plasmavore. I saw it with my own eyes. It’s not that hard to believe – you saw the ship on Christmas day, you saw the hypnosis. And after that, you saw the cybermen. You know we’re – we could be – telling the truth.”  
Sherlock looked at her for a moment. Then he nodded. “Okay, fine. What’s this plasmavore, then?”  
“Shapeshifters,” said the Doctor. “They can mimic the internal structure and genetic material of their victim using the blood they drink, but they need it to survive too – they absorb a lot of salt. They’re criminals, really. They just move across galaxies, murdering people.”  
“Well,” said John, after a second, “It’s better than Vampires.”  
“Actually, they probably evolved from the Great Vampires in the Dark times, but-“  
Martha cleared her throat loudly.  
“Could we just take a look around?”  
“I suppose so,” said Sherlock stepping aside to let them in. Lestrade looked slightly put out – it was his crime scene, after all – but offered no objection.  
“Could we see the body?” Martha asked.  
“Sorry,” said John, “It’s gone to the morgue. I saw it though – completely drained of blood, two puncture marks in the neck.”  
“Two?” the Doctor looked confused.  
“Yeah, two. We though it was some nutcase pretending to be a vampire. What’s wrong?”  
“Plasmavores don’t use their teeth, normally.” Said the Doctor. “They make a cut and drink the blood with a straw.”  
Lestrade’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline.  
“So…” said John.  
“A pair.” said Sherlock, his mouth twisting into a grin. “There are two of them, aren’t there?”  
The Doctor sighed. “Looks like it.”  
They were standing in the room where the bodies had been found. The Doctor peered around, but then shook his head.  
“There’s nothing useful here. We’re going to have to look elsewhere.” He raised his eyes to Sherlock, and then flicked them to John and Lestrade. “I suppose you lot would like to come along?”  
“Of course,” said Sherlock, and as a group they headed for the door.


End file.
